


Write them white, words on the wind

by lbmisscharlie



Series: White Writing [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Laundry, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:31:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3576225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They never can agree on laundry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Write them white, words on the wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [what_alchemy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy/gifts).



> Titles taken from Carol Ann Duffy's "White Writing":
> 
> No rules written to guide you,  
> I write them white,  
> words on the wind,  
> traced with a stick where we walk on the sand.

They should just send their laundry out. SHIELD pays Peggy enough, and Angie’s been able to be selective about her roles since ’49 and _South Pacific._

(She took the nurse’s costume home one night and put on Betty Carver’s breathless voice. Peggy’d nearly slugged her before pinning her to the bed, shoving the skirt up around Angie’s hips, and asking what it was like to be a damsel in distress while her fingers slipped up inside her. There was grit in her voice, but her panties were wet through when Angie finally got her hands free to check.)

So really, they could afford to have it done, to come back nice and pressed and clean, but in Peggy’s mind the world’s still rationing, and Angie’s never quite shaken off her Ma’s red-knuckled, Depression insistence on doing things herself. And their housewarming gift from Howard was a washing machine that Angie’s pretty certain doubles as a bomb disarmament system. Or possibly an explosives mixer? She hadn’t been listening that closely.

All that means that they find themselves, awfully frequent, with one of Peggy’s blouses or skirts between them arguing over the best way to get out blood. Angie’s Ma had always used salt water on the ripped knees of the boys’ jeans, but Peggy swears by spit.

“It only works if you spit while the blood’s still wet, Pegs.” Angie holds the blouse up to the light. There’s a rip under the arm that will need darning, too, and how many times has Angie told Peggy to wear knits when she’s in the field? Stretch is important when you’re punching a man. 

“Next time I’ll pause to attend to my laundry while I’m getting shot at,” Peggy says drily, and Angie lifts an eyebrow. “Shot near,” Peggy amends with a quick smile. Angie wrinkles her nose, but allows it. Peggy peers at the stain, now a faded copper brown splatter over the left breast, and frowns. “It’s a shame. I like this blouse.”

Angie hums. The neckline’s always been a little high for her taste.

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s not that,” Angie says, letting her smile tip up the corners of her mouth. “Just that I always hope when your clothes get destroyed, it’s ‘cause I’m ripping them off of you.”

Peggy’s eyebrows arch up, mouth open in surprised little _O,_ and Angie’s ever so glad she can still charm that look out of her. She lowers the blouse, starts to drop it on the washer top, when Peggy stills her hand.

“No reason you can’t,” she says, and tugs her sweater up over her head. From Angie’s hand she takes the stained blouse and pulls it on, buttoning up the front. It clings damply to her brassiere, to the bare skin under her clavicle, and Angie’s hands twist in the front tails as she shoves Peggy up against the washer.


End file.
